


Criterion

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, PTSD, The Hounds of Baskerville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's experiment doesn't quite go as planned. (<b>Spoilers</b> for <i>The Hounds of Baskerville</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Criterion

**Author's Note:**

> While I've done a bit of research, I really have no proper background knowledge for either the effects and causes of PTSD, nor what serving in Afghanistan is actually like for a British soldier.
> 
> Please excuse any mistakes - I am mostly just trying to get myself writing again.
> 
> Not beta'd or brit-picked.

It is like an itch at the very back of his head that starts as soon as they approach Baskerville in the car.

Sherlock is driving steadily, completely confident that they will be able to pass the gate of a high-security military base, that nobody will get suspicious of them investigating somewhere where they clearly have no right to be. John thinks it’s a ridiculous plan, but then nearly all of Sherlock’s ideas are - and tend to work out in spite of it.

It feels - not _odd_ exactly, but somehow uncomfortable to see men in uniform again, holding weapons in competent hands, faces serious and furrowed in concentration.

John suppresses a shiver.

 _Get a grip_ , he thinks, fingers curling slightly into his thighs.

They’re not even wearing desert combat dress, of course not, and yet John doesn’t dare look too closely at the men guarding the barbed wire. For some reason, being among soldiers once more makes him highly, _highly_ uncomfortable.

Surely, Ella would love talking about this.

John is shaken out of his reverie when they arrive at the gate and, God knows how, Sherlock’s stolen access pass gets accepted. They drive into a top-security military base as if it were nothing, and John isn’t sure if he’s supposed to be impressed by Sherlock’s skills or appalled that the British army wouldn’t double-check authorization, wouldn’t ask for any kind of additional ID before letting two strangers onto the base.

But then, John might just be a tad too paranoid. Baskerville surely doesn’t have to deal with the same kind of security risks the army faces down in the Middle East.

They make it near the laboratories without incident, and only as they leave the car and approach the building does somebody show up to make sure that Sherlock and John won’t see or touch anything they are not supposed to.

Corporal Lyons, young but certainly competent, seems to realize that something is up, and while Sherlock has a kind of authority that seems to come natural to him, John has the feeling that he might just have to step in to make this ludicrous plan work out smoothly.

 _Pulling rank_ , so to speak, feels equally liberating and strange. John hasn’t ordered anybody around in a very long time, at least not in this fashion. It’s surprisingly easy to go back to that place in his mind, where every man knowing rank and order is vital for survival, and John succeeds where Sherlock failed. Corporal Lyons hurries to open the door, swallowing any further questions.

John knows Sherlock is impressed, but when he asks John if he enjoyed ordering the man around, his answer to the positive sounds half-hearted at best.

He is surprised Sherlock doesn’t comment on it, but then he’s probably rather busy taking in as much information as needed before their fraud is discovered and writes it off to John’s tense nerves.

And tense he certainly is, though John isn’t sure if it is only the deception, their most likely imminent exposure, or something else, something more.

He never gets the time to figure it out, because they’re rushing through the labs, animals screeching at them as they pass, both of them dodging questions and suspicion with less and less luck. John feels a bit heady, but it’s not the usual thrill of the case, not exactly.

Rather, it’s mingled with a feeling of foreboding, a crawling sensation in his stomach - John doesn’t like it much, works through it by keeping up his military persona as much as possible.

Somehow, they make it through without getting caught, and while Major Barrymore is very close to having them arrested, they leave Baskerville more or less undetected with the help of Dr Frankland.

As soon as they leave the base, the odd feeling, the _itch_ \- it’s gone.

John feels like he can breathe again.

\--

Of course, Sherlock makes them go back.

 _Naturally._

John isn’t happy about it, especially when he is left to his own devices, exploring the labs without Sherlock by his side to ground him.

Sherlock and Afghanistan - they’re so clearly separate stages of his life that looking at him had calmed him down considerably, John realizes. Now that he is on his own, it’s just him in a strange environment and there’s just enough adrenaline in his system to make it feel properly dangerous.

At least, once the last couple of scientists leave, their disappearance means he doesn’t have to catch himself watch any and all people in the corner of his eyes, as if he were back in Afghanistan with any unfamiliar person being a potential threat.

He swipes Mycroft’s access card to check an adjacent room, only to find that’s it’s empty except for sets of vacant cages and a bit of foggy air.

John doubts he will find what Sherlock is looking for here and creeps back, but just as the door closes behind him, there’s a bright light blinding him and seconds later, the alarm goes off.

John’s ears start ringing almost immediately, his vision impaired by the sudden impact of far too bright light on his retinas, and he finds himself stumbling through the lab, clutching the card until he finds the nearest door.

But the card doesn’t work, _it doesn’t,_ no matter how often he tries to swipe it through, and the ringing in his ears grows louder, psychological stress only making the acoustic trauma worse.

John starts to feel dizzy. He hisses and swears under his breath, feeling disoriented.

He flinches when the alarm is finally switched off, along with the lights. He tries to make sense of the sudden darkness and then, he hears - scratching on the lab floor? Something moving?

John’s anxiety spikes, slowly tipping over into fear as he starts hurrying through the room, looking for things that might just not be there - moving shadows, faceless forms, hiding behind cages and white sheets and _dry hills, concealed between sandy ground and ramshackle huts and God, he’s on his own, isn’t he?_ Why _is he on his own out here?_

 _Panicking, he moves to seek cover, diving behind a pile of rocks, frantically trying to control his breathing as he searches the dry ground around him for his rifle, his backpack,_ anything _._

 _Suddenly, he is scared out of his mind and he doesn’t know why, doesn’t understand. This shouldn’t be happening. What’s gone wrong? Where are the others? They can’t have left him out here, lacking supplies, without a weapon, can they?_

 _John presses a hand over his mouth when he can’t still his harsh breathing. He mustn’t make any noise, must stay hidden until he can find a way out or contact somebody. Eyes moving rapidly from left to right to look out for any approaching danger, John’s free hand is running over his body now, checking his pockets, seeking any kind of weapon. He wouldn’t be out here without something, a scalpel at least,_ some _kind of weapon, surely._

 _Finally, his fingers curl around something and the sudden rush of relief is so heady he feels like he might just pass out._

 _The radio. Means for communication, a chance of rescue._

 _As if on cue, the thing starts beeping immediately and John lifts it his mouth, blindly pushing buttons until the traitorous noise stops and he can hear a tinny voice through the speaker._

 _“John?” A man’s voice. John doesn’t recognize it, but whoever it is, they know his name and that’s a good sign. “John, can you hear me?”_

 _“Captain John Watson speaking,” John whispers harshly, curling the hand previously pressed to his mouth around the radio to hush any superfluous sounds as much as possible. He might be hidden for now, but talking too loudly will surely get him caught. “I’m in an unknown location, I don’t recognize it, I don’t remember how I got here. Requesting any available information, over.”_

 _For a few seconds, there is no response and John fears he’s lost contact already, his heart beating madly fast as his hope for a rescue wanes. But then, the voice is back, talking to him, and John presses the radio closer, hoping to muffle the sounds while still being able to communicate._

 _“John? John. Listen to me, you_ need _to stay calm. John, can you hear me? Calm. Down. It’s going to be okay.”_

 _John closes his eyes briefly, willing himself not to scream at the radio. He knows he needs to be still and focus, he knows the man is giving him good advice, but he’s out here, alone,_ alone _, he’s in mortal danger, he knows it._

 _“Please,” he finally manages, completely unable to do any form of proper radio communication. “Please, just get me out of here.”_

 _He knows he is practically begging, almost whimpering really, but he doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t, nobody wants to die like this, soldier or not. God, but he’s_ scared. __

 _“Please find me. They’re_ here _, I know it, they’ll find me, they’ll_ kill _me. You need to get me out.”_

 _There is no answer. John waits long and painful seconds, blood rushing through his ears, head swimming as fear makes him curl in on himself._

 _But the man, the voice, it’s gone. No contact, no help, no rescue. Just John and whoever is threatening him, whoever is lurking there in the shadows, just waiting to take his life._

 _He needs to fight. He can’t die today, not here, not like this, not alone and afraid somewhere in this god-forsaken country, dead and forgotten._

 _John needs to move. He needs to move, maybe find a place that will give him both cover and a good view of the area. He can do this. He can fight the panic, the fear._

 _He never gets to change his location, because suddenly, there’s the sound of somebody approaching, a voice calling out, and John can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but most likely, it isn’t English and it isn’t a friend, so he does the only thing he can do - he waits and looks and when he sees something move nearby, when whoever it is is close enough, he pushes himself up, dropping the radio as he tackles the approaching figure._

 _John is running with his instincts now, blindly grabbing and punching the stranger until they both go down, rolling over the ground with the force of John’s attack._

 _He manages to get hold of an arm and yanks it backwards, satisfied with the pained groan he receives and maybe, just maybe, he can win this and get this man’s weapon and be safe, saf_ er _at least, maybe make his way to the nearest settlement and find help._

 _“John.”_

 _Blinking, John shakes his head. Had he just heard--?_

 _“John, it’s me. John. John!”_

 _God, he’s feeling dizzy. He needs to close his eyes, just briefly._

 _But then, his death-grip on the other man loosens as he starts to shiver, suddenly and violently overcome with what might be shock or a seizure and by God, what is happening to him, what is he doing?_

 _He starts struggling too late, just as he is being flipped onto his back and two hands curl around his neck-- no, no, they are cupping his cheeks, and there’s that voice again, the one from the radio, calling out to him._

 _“John. John, calm down, it’s me._ It’s me: Sherlock.”

With a gasp, John opens his eyes and it all comes back to him. It’s no longer dark around him, there’s no moving shadows, no rocks, nothing. In fact, the lights in the lab - _the lab!_ \- have been switched back on and above him is no stranger but Sherlock, eyes wide and pale as they stare down at him.

“John, it’s all right, you’re safe.”

And just like that, John realizes he is crying. He’s not really sobbing, or gasping for breaths, but there’s a steady stream of tears running down his cheeks and past Sherlock’s hands. He doesn’t know why or how or when it started.

“Sherlock,” he says, and his voice sounds raspy and wrong and terrible.

“Good,” Sherlock replies and lets go of John’s face. “You recognize me that’s - that’s good.”

He gets up from the floor, straightening out his coat, but eyes never leaving John’s face.

“What happened?” John demands, sitting on the floor, uselessly scrubbing at his face with shaking hands. He blinks harshly, but his eyes refuse to cooperate and stay teary.

“You’ve been drugged,” Sherlock replies and through the blur, John watches Sherlock rub at his shoulder. It takes him a moment to realize that it had been _Sherlock’s_ arm he had wrenched a few minutes ago. “We have all been drugged, in fact.”

The man ceases his movement, eyes narrowing.

“But you didn’t see the Hound, did you?” he asks and John shakes his head.

God, is he still crying? Taking a few jittery breaths, John finally manages to clear his vision, getting rid of the tracks with the back of hand.

“Stress reaction,” Sherlock says, voice suddenly much gentler than before. “Not to worry, perfectly normal in the circumstances. Definitely _not_ a sign of weakness. I take it you had a kind of flashback?”

Nodding grimly, John’s hand curls around the edge of the nearby table ( _not_ a pile of rocks, as it turns out) as he tries to steady himself and stand up. But his legs are like jelly, and he slides back onto the floor in a graceless heap.

He feels pathetic. John doesn’t want to be seen this way, especially not by Sherlock.

“Sorry for attacking you,” he mutters towards the floor, feeling tired and worn-out.

“It doesn’t matter. Afghanistan, yes?” Sherlock pries, but his voice still sounds a bit off, much softer than his usual interrogating voice.

“Nothing specific,” John grinds out, gathering strength to try and stand up once more, eventually succeeding. He doesn’t miss the way Sherlock’s hands twitch, ready to reach out should he fall again.

“I was just... scared. Felt like somebody was trying to kill me, though I didn’t know who or why and...”

He clears his throat as the memories starts to overwhelm him again. He’s had enough of a cry, enough of a panic attack. Surely, his body is done freaking out by now.

But his vision grows a bit fuzzy again around the edges, just for a moment, until Sherlock curls a steadying hand around John’s shoulder, grounding him.

John takes a few minutes, just to breathe and tell himself that he’s fine, that it is over, until he feels steady enough to gently shake off Sherlock’s hand.

“I assume those drugs don’t do well with PTSD. I was... _it_ was a right mess.”

He looks up at Sherlock, determined to make it perfectly clear that he wants him to shut up about this. For now, at least.

“I am _fine_ ,” he says when Sherlock continues to eye him carefully. “Are we done in here?”

Sherlock still hesitates, frowning at him for a few seconds, before finally nodding and turning around.

\--

They solve the case eventually, Sherlock being who he is, and John finds himself enjoying his last meal at the inn when his brain, at last, manages to connect dots.

“It was _you_!” he says accusingly, putting down his fork and turning his head towards Sherlock. “You locked me in that bloody lab.”

“It was an experiment,” Sherlock retorts, but does have the decency to avert his eyes.

“An _experiment_ ,” John snaps. “I had a- you made me-”

He stops, too angry to form proper sentences. Sherlock experimenting on him - well, _fine_ , John honestly hadn’t expected any better of him. But, surely, a genius like Sherlock would realize that it wasn’t a smart idea to lock a PTSD-ridden ex-soldier into military lab, drug him up and let him face whatever fucked-up thing John’s mind could come up with?

He knew about the nightmares, the shaking hand, the _bloody limp_. How could he not anticipate this going horribly, _horribly_ wrong?

John’s angry silence gives Sherlock the opportunity to talk.

“I didn’t think it would affect you this way,” Sherlock says, voice uncharacteristically quiet. “I had it all planned out. You were supposed to see the Hound. Your brain, your imagination - it was supposed to do the work. I didn’t take into consideration that-”

“Well, you should have!” John interrupts him loudly, slamming a fist onto the wooden table. Undoubtedly, people are looking at them by now, but he couldn’t care less. “You _always_ do. You look at a string of facts, you come to a conclusion and you are right about it.”

He turns, hot anger running through his veins.

“Didn’t you realize I was on edge when we first went to Baskerville? Didn’t you bloody observe that it tickled my memory? Did you, _Sherlock Holmes_ , actually not realize that the first thing my drugged brain would scream at me would be _Afghanistan_ , not Hound!”

“No,” Sherlock replies, and John simply deflates.

“No, of course not,” he says, voice harsh but no longer seething with anger. “Why would you. Why would you care? Why worry at all? I thought we’ve had this conversation already this week. We are _friends_ , Sherlock. Friends don’t - they don’t do this to each other, don’t you see that?”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says and John looks closely at him.

Sherlock looks - well, not humbled, because it’s not a look Sherlock’s face seems capable of showing. But certainly apologetic.

“I _am_ sorry,” he repeats for emphasis. “I should have expected this, of course I should have. You might not believe me, but I did _not_ enjoy seeing you in that state. You were - you were scared and traumatized, entirely irrational and _crying_ , I-”

For a second, Sherlock actually seems to be at a loss of what to say, though the look he is giving John definitely expresses his honesty, his regret.

John has to swallow against a clogged feeling in his throat.

“It won’t happen again,” Sherlock states.

John actually laughs at that. It doesn’t sound as bitter as he had expected it to.

“You can’t promise that. Clearly, not even you are able to precisely predict when my brain will decide to fuck up again.”

“No, of course,” Sherlock says and places a tentative hand on John’s shoulder. “I mean, I won’t do anything like this again. Use you for an experiment. I couldn’t... I wouldn’t want to...”

It’s plain what he wants to say, and in any other situation, John might have let him get away with letting it go unstated.

But not today. Not when Sherlock’s games made John break down so completely. He wants to hear it, needs to hear it, really, needs to know that he is not entirely mad for putting up with this man, for staying by his side long after anybody else would have left.

“I can’t afford to lose you,” Sherlock eventually manages and John lets out a sigh.

“You can’t,” he agrees and lets the statement hover for a bit before continuing. “Nobody else crazy enough to take care of you, is there?”

Sherlock smiles just a bit, then.

“No,” he replies, looking him right into the eye before averting his gaze. “You, John Watson, are one of a kind.”


End file.
